


all's well in this world

by Lyre (Lyrecho)



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everything is terrible, F/M, Martel Is Alive, Mithos Is Dead, Pre-Canon, Roleswap, Yggdrasibling Swap AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23489551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Lyre
Summary: In a world where it's Martel that survives, Anna Irving suffers a very different fate.|Tumblr||Twitter|
Relationships: Anna/Kratos Aurion, Kratos Aurion & Martel Yggdrasill, Yuan Ka-Fai/Martel Yggdrasill
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	all's well in this world

> **now**

Anna wakes up. Aching, tired, and disoriented, sure, but she wakes up.

_Where? The fuck is she?_

High white walls spiral into a ceiling made of light. The bed she's sleeping in is softer than any she can remember ever laying in before, and the sheets may as well be silk, for all Anna knows about cloth. If she had to put a word to it, they _feel_ silky, anyway.

_Seriously, where the fuck -_

"Ah," says a voice, warm and feminine and entirely unfamiliar, except there's an itch in the back of her mind telling her that it's not, " _there_ you are, Anna."

She blinks, and sees green - a long curtain of hair, brushing over her as the woman who spoke leans in close, but Anna barely has a second to register that, because there, in her arms, is Anna's son, curled up and sleeping, and she wants to cry, because her last memory of Lloyd is him staring at her, wide eyed, in confused fear - Noishe, bloody, curling around him like a shield.

"Who - " she croaks out, throat dead, and tries again. "Who are you?"

"Me?" The woman looks startled, and then she lets out a laugh. "Well, I suppose you wouldn't know," she says amicably, and smiles.

It isn't a nice smile.

"I'm Martel," she says, and Anna freezes. "I've been wanting to meet you for _such_ a long time, Anna."

Oh, Anna doesn’t - she does _not_ like the way Martel says that, especially when the woman is cradling _her son_ in her arms. There’s nothing overtly angry about her, or threatening - her tone, her stance it’s all...relaxed.

But her eyes? They _burn_ , and Anna doesn’t quite know what it is she’s done to make Martel Yggdrasill hate her when she’s never even _met_ the woman before, but. She grew up in a ranch, surrounded by angry Desians, surrounded by angry humans. She knows, all too well, what hate looks like.

And this is it.

She doesn’t let a single flicker of those frantic, messy thoughts show on her face. “I’ve been wanting to meet you too,” she says, instead of screaming at her _give me my son_. “Kratos has told me so much about you.”

Those burning eyes darken. “Wow, lucky you!” Says Martel. “You must know so many interesting things about me, then - much more than I know about you, unfortunately, Anna. After all, everything I know about you came from the file they kept on you at your ranch.” The tension in her jaw as she grits her teeth splinters her mostly perfect facade, a little bit. “Kratos told you about me, then? He didn’t just forget I exist?”

A stab in the gut - anxiety was one hell of a blade, coated in something sickening that lingers - and Anna knows, with sudden, startling clarity, why Martel Yggdrasill hates her.

“Where’s _my husband_ ,” she demands, and that fractured smiles falls away to reveal a full scowl.

“ _My brother_ ,” Martel emphasises, “is getting reacquainted with the duties he’s neglected for far too long. He can’t expect to function as one of the Four Seraphim if he has no idea what he’s missed, gallivanting around with you, after all.”

Cold anger. A familiar companion, propped up by desperate bravado. “He’s not part of Cruxis,” she spits out, and part of her acknowledges that, on some level, it’s really incredibly stupid to be talking back to the woman in front of her. That part is ignored pretty easily - never let it be said that Anna Irving isn’t honest about her temper. “He _left_ , and last I checked, he had no plans of coming back - we aren’t staying here with you.”

Anna has - well, to be truthful, Anna hasn’t a single idea as to what the fuck is going on right now. She doesn’t know how she got here, to what she presumes is Derris-Kharlan; the last thing she remembers is - 

_Kvar._

Her throat feels tight, and for a moment Martel doesn’t exist; she frantically glances down at herself, and reassures herself that it’s human limbs and skin she’s seeing. Her gaze flickers to her exsphere. 

Not just her exsphere. Latticework of gold shines underneath the overhead lights like the sun, and Anna knows this deceptively delicate piece of work is a key crest. She remembers her exsphere burning on the back of her hand. She remembers her flesh burning with it, twisting her into something monstrous. She knows this key crest is surely the only reason she’s still human.

Even so, she wants to claw it off.

Martel’s gaze tracks hers, and one hand comes away from where it’s cradling Anna’s son to link their fingers. Anna flinches, and looks back up at Martel’s smile.

“Do you like it?” She asks, and lifts Anna’s hand up, to tilt it in the light. “You were unconscious, so I couldn’t ask you what you wanted, and Kratos was _no_ help at all. He was more concerned with just getting a key crest on you, which I suppose is understandable.” Martel shrugs. “If it’s not to your taste, once you’ve adjusted properly, we can change it out for something else.”

She hasn’t let go of Anna’s hand, slowly angling it from side to side, and the light that reflects off of the gold in flickers is as sharp as Martel’s friendly tone.

“...Adjusted?”

Martel blinks. “Oh - haven’t you realised?” Her brow creases. “How much has Kratos told you? About what he is?”

Cold and clammy, Anna yanks her hand away. Martel doesn’t comment on it, simply smiles and pulls her own hand back.

“He’s told me - enough,” she says. “Enough. I know - ” Nausea curls in her gut like a restless cat. “I know how the whole - how it works. But he said that I shouldn’t have to worry - that it takes a while.”

“Oh, good,” Martel says. She sounds relieved, and lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m not sure how I’d even begin to explain this if you knew nothing! Basically, Anna - what Kratos told you was right. It _does_ take a while.” She smiles. “That’s why I helped the process along! I’ve had a lot of practice, you know, with the Chosen.”

Something in Anna _burns,_ and she can’t tell if it’s horror, or anger, or fear, or something else entirely. It’s an emotion that defies explanation; a fire that burns through her until there’s nothing left but broken charring.

“No,” she says. “No.”

Martel’s smile is beatific, consoling, as she reaches over to stroke Anna’s hair. “Yes,” she says, and adjusts her hold on Lloyd. “You’re tired, aren’t you, Anna? Don’t worry. That’s normal. Give it a few days, and you won’t be able to sleep at all, so you should make the most of it while you can!” Her hand lifts away, and she stands, stepping back from the bed. Red hot anger, but Anna is weak, and the further Martel takes her son away from her, the colder she feels. “Don’t worry,” Martel repeats, and her smile is genuine now, her attention not on Anna at all. “I’ll take good care of Lloyd while you rest. Sweet dreams, Anna.”

* * *

> **then**

The day starts out nice, which is, maybe, how Kratos should have known this small piece of bliss he’d found was at its end.

“Can you take Lloyd?” Anna waits for him at the entrance to the little cottage they’ve made a home in - he’d stepped out before dawn to check his traps, and had taken the time to butcher the rabbit one had caught while still out in the woods. The one time he’d brought game home, Lloyd had cried himself sick until he passed out. Anna had exiled him to the couch that night, and let Lloyd take his place in their bed, snuggled into his mother’s arms. “He’s been bouncing off the walls since he woke up; I just need a few minutes of quiet.”

“Of course,” Kratos says, and ducks down to press a quick but firm kiss to the corner of her mouth - so long together yet no time at all, and something as simple as an innocent kiss has him feeling giddy. From the curve of her lips under his, either she feels it too, or can tell what he’s thinking, and is laughing at him. Either is equally as possible as the other.

When Anna pulls back, she steps away from the door to take a seat on the steps of their porch, and Kratos tells himself to stow his worry over her too thin wrists and too gaunt cheeks and take care of their son. It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Anna - he just can’t _do_ anything about it.

Lloyd lights up when he sees him, jumping to his feet from where he’d been wrestling with Noishe to run at Kratos with blinding speed. He tackles his legs with a grip like iron. 

“Dad!” Lloyd grins up at him, all teeth. 

Kratos smiles back down at him, gentle in a way he can’t be with anyone else - not even Anna. “I hear you’ve been causing some trouble for your mother, this morning,” he says as he kneels down, and while he’s trying to be scolding, he can’t help the forgiving amusement that creeps into his voice as Lloyd scrambles into his arms. “She needs rest, Lloyd.”

 _“Noooo,”_ Lloyd whines, but doesn’t try to scramble out of his arms to run for Anna.

“It’s okay,” Kratos laughs. “We can let her rest - I’ll play with you, for at least a while.”

Lloyd cheers, right next to his ear, and Kratos contemplates the benefits of turning his hearing off. If it wasn’t for the fact that Anna would be angry at him for it, he’d have probably fallen back on his old coping mechanism of shutting down his senses far more often since Lloyd’s birth. As it is, he hasn’t turned his taste back on in years - he just doesn’t see the point in it. It’s not like anything he or Anna can cook tastes _good._ Anna’s just too pragmatic to let taste get to her, and Lloyd will eat anything you put in front of him so long as it doesn’t involve tomatoes. 

He spends an easy and calm morning on the floor with his son and Noishe, catching Lloyd when he slides off of Noishe’s back - he doesn’t quite have the grip or leg strength to stay in place just yet. When Anna decides to come back inside, it’s been maybe the greater half of an hour, and while she still looks exhausted down to her bones, that pinching in the corner of her eyes is gone, and she’s smiling.

It’s perfect, in a way that once, Kratos would have believed could only have come from a cruel dream. A pastel coated nightmare.

So, of course, this is where it all comes tumbling down.

By noon clouds have rolled in to cover the sky in a thick gray, and the cool damp of oncoming rain is tempered by the static that lingers, clinging to Kratos’ skin as he leans outside to survey the weather.

“Well?” Anna asks, standing a little further back in their cottage, Lloyd half asleep in her arms, almost ready to go down for his midday nap.

“Looks like it’s going to storm,” he says, which is obvious.

What isn’t obvious is what has him _itching_ under his skin. His anxiety flickers, a second, dissonant heartbeat pulsing through his nerves. Anna can’t sense whatever it is that has him on edge, but she can sense that edge he’s hovering over, and it has her antsy, too.

She hums. _“Just_ a storm?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.” He looks back over his shoulder, and meets Anna’s eyes. She stares back at him with that cool core of unyielding determination shining through, but she can’t hide her fear, not completely. Not from him. He avoids looking at their son curled up in her arms, and glances to Noishe, instead. “Protect them,” he says.

“And where are you going?”

“Something isn’t right,” Kratos says, putting words to the weight on his spine. Mana wells, and wings of light unfurl. “I’ll be back soon. I just want to check around the perimeter.”

“...Okay,” Anna says. “Okay. We’ll be waiting.”

“I won’t be long,” Kratos promises, and steps fully out of their little cottage, pulling the door shut behind him.

His grip on the sword he’d never wanted but has never been able to let go of tightens. The leather wrapped around the hilt groans.

He takes flight.

-x-

Martel is with Yuan, when the news that Kratos has been found reaches her ears.

Her relationship with her husband is… strained, these days, even though that still isn’t _quite_ the word for it. Volatile? Contradictory? She doesn’t know how to put a name to it. She doesn’t know how to put a name to the emotions she sees in Yuan’s face when he stares at her, either. Love? Hate? Both? Neither?

He doesn’t want her anymore, not in the way he used to. She _knows_ this, can taste it on his lips every time he kisses her, feel it in the slow, reluctant drag of his fingertips when he pulls her close. He can’t let her go, though.

That’s fine. She can’t quite find it in her to let go of him, either.

Today’s a good day, for them. Minimal smiles, minimal affection, but no pointed words. Yuan hasn’t left in a huff yet, dark scowl affixed to his face, so maybe this will even become a great day? She might be able to convince him to spend the night with her. It’s been years, and she misses him. He misses her too, she knows it. He wouldn’t keep coming back to her when business didn’t demand it if he didn’t.

At first, she’s annoyed when the report comes through - all hopes of a great day vanishing - but then she reads the words, once, twice, thrice, and she understands them.

Oh. This isn’t a great day, no.

It’s a _perfect_ one.

Across from her, Yuan is perfectly still. His gaze is wary when she looks up at him, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. “Look, Yuan, look!” She hands him the tablet, and watches him intently as his eyes flick across lines and lines of incredible, damning truth.

“Kratos,” he says, and the corners of his mouth are tight. “You’ve found him.”

He doesn’t sound happy. Martel notes down that she was right - Yuan’s known where Kratos was this entire time. Might have even been the one to help him flee? Avoid her? Not important, doesn’t matter. It’s not something to get _angry_ over, not when it’s Yuan. Not when it’s Kratos.

_Her silly boys._

“We have,” she agrees, and stands, pushing back from the table. Yuan’s eyes track her as she makes her way across the room.

“Where are you going?”

“To fetch our brother, of course,” Martel says, and sends him a smile over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming, too?”

-x-

Kratos leaves, and Anna isn’t any more worried or scared than she normally is.

Thunder crashes, lightning streaking the sky, and still, her anxiety doesn’t rise.

But then, Noishe starts growling, a low, rumbling threat, and, so very, very aware of her son sleeping in the bed behind her, Anna has never been more terrified in her entire life. Never been more consciously aware of just how alone and powerless she is.

She grits her teeth. _Fuck that._

She knows where Kratos keeps his spare blades, out of reach of Lloyd’s curious, wandering hands, and grabs down from the rafters the blade he’s been using to teach her on days when her body is actually cooperating with her on the whole “being young and alive” thing - lighter and shorter than the ones he favours, because she just doesn’t have the strength in her anymore for much more than that, but still lethally sharp, with a faint serrated edge towards to hilt; _saw when you can’t cut or stab,_ he’d told her, once. _In defense, anything goes._

It sickens her, a bit, but she gets it. And she knows that, if it comes down to it, she’ll _use_ it.

“Is the danger close?” She looks to Noishe, and - she can’t understand him, but she knows he understands her perfectly. Eyes too intelligent to belong to any normal animal meet hers, and he shakes his head. “So. Should we stay, or should we go?”

Noishe’s ears flick back and forth, and a low whine breaks from his throat. He trots to the singular door of their cottage, their little bastion of peace, and looks back at her pleadingly. 

Anna sighs, a deep shaky breath through her teeth. Tries to unclench her jaw, immediately moves on when she can’t. Anxiety sure is a bitch.

“Okay,” she says, “okay. Give me a sec, and we’ll get out of here.”

No time to pack supplies, which sucks, but they’ll deal. A nudge, two, and Lloyd is complaining, but awake.

“Mama?”

“Hey, baby - mama needs you to get all rugged up, okay?”

Lloyd’s confused, she can tell, blinking at her with eyes still half-clouded with sleep, but he takes the jacket and boots she hands him, and puts them on automatically, pausing each time he has to yawn. She slams a wool cap down on his head herself, hands shaking as she tries to remind herself to be gentle. She can’t let her fear make her hurt her son.

She helps him down from the bed, and leads him to Noishe. “Hold on to Noishy, okay?” She says, and tries to smile for him. “Don’t let go of him, no matter what.” She sends a warning glare to Noishe, who inclines his head.

Lloyd is as safe as she can possibly make him, for now.

“Okay,” she says, repeating herself as she tries to think through panic. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Cold, wet and electric, the night air is like a slap to the face when she opens the door. She doesn’t bother to douse any of the lanterns in the cottage - if whoever is here (and it has to be a _who,_ Noishe wouldn’t be growling like this for a monster) sees lights still on in the building, maybe they won’t realise immediately that this one shelter hidden amongst trees no longer has anyone home in it.

The ground is slick when she steps onto it. Slippery. “Watch your footing,” she tells Lloyd. She tries not to let the sword she carries drag on the ground.

The sky lights up, and it isn’t lightning.

It’s Judgement.

Fear isn’t the right word for what Anna is feeling right now. Neither is terror. “We’re moving,” she says, as much to herself as it is to Noishe. “We’re _moving.”_

She runs, trusting that Noishe will keep on her trail, trusting that he will keep Lloyd by his side. Barely the space of a few heartbeats away from the cottage, and the dark of the woods is absolute. No moon tonight, with this cloud coverage. Anna runs blind, the only illumination coming from the brief flashes of lightning that break up the night.

Noishe barks a warning, and even without understanding him, Anna trusts him enough to slow. “What is it, Noishe - ”

Running forward with a snarl, Noishe all but barrels into her, ripping the sword she holds from her hands. Wet dark like ink splashes up her arms, and Anna stares at Noishe’s blood in confusion as he flings the blade away from them, paying no heed to how it had cut his gums.

Lightning crashes down, and Anna is downed by - something. It isn’t pain; if it hurts to be electrocuted, she doesn’t know, because there’s black, and then there’s numb, and then there’s Lloyd crying, and she _has_ to get up. _Get up, Anna!_

hands claws dig into rain soaked soil. through shock addled thoughts logic settles in. metal blade in a storm trees on all sides. so wet from downpour that hasn’t stopped that rolling downhill rainfall carves rivers into ground

lloyd crying

Anna gasps, feeling _something_ \- in her spine? her brain? spasm. She forces herself to her feet. Her exsphere feels like a burning lump of coal on the back of her hand.

“Lloyd,” she rasps out, swaying. Dizzy, blind. “Lloyd, are you okay?”

Stupid question, but she doesn’t have more words. Other words. Not right now.

“Mama,” Lloyd sobs, _“mama!”_

“Mama’s here,” she promises. “Mama’s right here, she’s not going anywhere.”

“My dear,” says a voice - a familiar voice, a hated voice, cutting in and Anna is _ice,_ she is ice and she is the fire on the back of her hand and she wants this voice dead she wants to _kill it_ the lightning couldn’t have waited for five more minutes? Waited until she’d shoved the sword like a lightning rod right through his gut? - “You should not make promises to the poor boy you will not be able to keep.”

 _Hate hate hate,_ and Anna wants to claw his face off. Rip with fingernails and teeth. Wants it so, _so_ badly.

But she isn’t alone, and Lloyd is crying. 

“Noishe,” she breathes, still broken, still aching, “get Lloyd out of here.”

Her vision is still hazy, but clearing, and Kvar is smiling at her.

Like she’s something amusing. Something pitiful.

Like she’s the one that got away, and he _hates_ her for the shame she’s caused him.

She grins. Wide, feral, vicious. _Tear him apart._

Her exsphere _aches._

“Oh, Anna,” Kvar sighs. “Anna, Anna, _Anna._ Do you really think that boy of yours is going anywhere?” His eyes glint, interest and sadism just visible in the low light, but so obvious to Anna. “He’s an incredibly interesting specimen. Perhaps even more valuable than _you,_ my dear. I haven’t come for just you, Anna. I’m here for the package deal.”

Nothing too shocking, really. Only confirming long held, quiet fears. The son of a seraphim, the son of a test subject. Carried to term while a rock sucks out her life. Lloyd is very, very special. Kvar does not need to tell Anna that. 

“You will not touch him,” she says, low, not a threat, not a promise. _Fact._ Kvar will not be touching Lloyd. Never. Not at all, _over her dead body._ “You will _die_ before you ever even come near him.”

Kvar laughs, like she’s a particularly clever puppy that had just performed for him a trick he’d never taught her. “And how, my dear, do you presume to _stop_ me?” He makes a show of glancing around, mockery in every line of his smile. Noises around them, and Anna knows the click of Desian guns. They’re surrounded. “I do not see Aurion anywhere nearby - do you, my dear?”

Anna grits her teeth. “If you think I need Kratos to protect my son from you,” she says, “then you don’t understand fucking _anything_ about me, so you can _quit_ with the fucking patronisation.” A final glance at Noishe, while Kvar grandstands, raising a brow at her and spreading wide his stupid arms.

 _Do you understand?_ Her eyes beg of Noishe.

He doesn’t want to, but he does. Stomach low to the ground, he slinks away from her, taking one, two, three cautious steps back. Lloyd on his back stares at her with wide eyes, not knowing what’s going on, but understanding that it’s serious. _Dangerous._

 _Mama?_ He mouths, and Anna isn’t going to cry, no matter how much she wants to.

She forces a smile. “Mama loves you,” she whispers. “Never forget that, Lloyd.”

And then she forces herself to look away, because she can’t, she just _can’t_ do this if she’s looking at Lloyd. She’ll break, she knows she will. 

She reaches down with one hand, and gently tests her fingernails on her skin. Around her exsphere, there’s the faintest give. If she wanted to, it would take barely any effort at all to deliberately rip it from her hand, even for her, as weak as she is.

“Kvar,” she calls out, cutting off whatever monologue he’d been going through that she’d been paying absolutely zero attention to. She holds up her hands, fingers like a vice still ready around her exsphere, and takes great satisfaction in seeing how he stills. It’s too dark to see, really, but she thinks he pales. 

It’s a nice thought.

“Kvar,” she repeats. _“I will rip this thing from my skin.”_

He swallows. Anna knows why. He’s here for the exsphere, mostly, no doubt about it. If he leaves with anything tonight - that one thing, it’s what he wants. It’s what he’ll choose.

But Anna also knows that he wants her back. Alive. Human. _If_ he can take her.

And right now? He thinks he still can, because he doesn’t understand Anna at all. Doesn’t understand how far she’s willing to go, doesn’t understand where her lines in the sand are where she will just _not_ take any more.

He doesn’t have that consideration for so-called ‘inferior beings,’ and Anna can _use_ that.

His gaze on her is cold, calculating. “You will not,” he says. “You are stalling, my dear, and rather clumsily at that - Aurion will not be coming here to save you - ”

A wince, an uncontrollable whimper, and Anna digs her nail in deeper, and starts pulling. Fear flashes through her, hot and cold, as agony radiates and she wants to _scream._ She doesn’t know how much is too much. She doesn’t know how much of the damnable rock has to leave her skin before she twists into a monster. She doesn’t know when bluff becomes genuine threat - not just to Kvar, but to _herself._

She just doesn’t - _can’t_ \- care. Not when it’s Lloyd at stake.

“I am _not,”_ she says, voice and body both shaking from pain, _“stalling.”_

Kvar’s glare on her narrows. “What is your ultimatum, then?”

“Lloyd,” she says. “Let him go. Let my son _go.”_

She has no intention of trusting Kvar. No intention of taking him at his word. Even if he tells the Desians with him now to stand down and let Noishe and Lloyd pass, there are undoubtedly countless more crawling all over this mountain. If he agrees, if he lets Lloyd go, it will only be because he has complete faith in his ability to catch him again later.

That’s fine. Anna has complete faith, too - in Noishe, and in Kratos. All she has to do here is create an opening for them to get out, when she’s already got them caught.

Kvar doesn’t answer, so with a strangled scream that comes straight from somewhere deep and raw and aching, Anna gives her exsphere another tug. Blood runs down her arm, but she can’t feel the heat.

“...Very well,” Kvar says, finally, and makes a short, sharp gesture with one hand. Behind Anna, she hears, through the rain, the clink of armour as guns held at the ready are lowered. “Let the boy pass.”

Lloyd makes a noise of protest, not understanding enough of what’s going on to fully clue in but realising that he’s leaving Anna behind, but Noishe, bless him, makes sure Lloyd doesn’t slide off his back and run to her.

And then they’re gone, and Anna is alone.

Good. All is as it should be. She’s going to die here, alone, but her son is as safe as she can make him - 

\- and she’s _sure as fuck_ taking Kvar down with her.

“Thank you,” she tells him, sincerely, “for being an idiot.”

She wasn’t stalling, and she wasn’t bluffing, not really. If Kratos had turned up at some point during their standoff - great, perfect, but he hadn’t, and this is all she has left to make her move with.

“I will become a monster, and I will _tear you into pieces,”_ Anna says, and this - _this_ is a threat, a promise. “You shouldn’t underestimate how far I’m willing to go, Kvar. You might think me a lowly, base lifeform, but know this: survival has _never_ been my number one priority. I wouldn’t know self-preservation if it slapped me in the face.” She smiles. “You’re a danger to my son,” she says. “And that’s all I need.”

Fingers slipping in the rain but her grip is still sure and firm. Pain radiates, but she isn’t going to back down, not this time.

mind twists, logic clouded. _she’s going to die here, alone._

good. all it as it should be.

_all is well._

-x-

“Oh! Noishe - that _is_ you, isn’t it, Noishe?”

“Why are you acting like this, silly? Are you angry at me, too?”

“Noishe?”

“Noishe, what are you hiding?”

“...Oh.”

“Well. This changes things.”

-x-

Killing is never something Kratos has come to enjoy, and he is thankful every time he goes into battle and comes out the other end sickened or numb - but this time. _This time._

Every death is satisfaction. Ignore the youthful faces under helmets. Ignore the fear in their eyes as they realise what it truly means to face down one of the Four Seraphim. Ignore the pleas they babble out as they drop their weapons and fall to their knees, begging for their lives.

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

They’re here for his family. To _hurt_ his family. Anna. _Lloyd._

Every troop he leaves alive, every soldier - that’s another threat that could come back later. 

So, it’s simple math: each and every single one of them, every Desian that was foolish enough to come here, to march directly into range of his wrath… has to die.

He doesn’t love it, but for once in his life, he doesn’t hate it, either.

They’re like ants, crawling up the sides of the mountain armed to the teeth - he isn’t fond of the comparison, but from high up above, that’s what they look like. A colony blindly, mindlessly following the orders from the one at the top.

There’s no sign of Kvar, yet, but Kratos _knows_ he’s here. He must be; no one else could mobilise Desians this way beyond the other Grand Cardinals, and none of them outside of Kvar would hold this level of interest in Anna, or the Angelus Project.

He takes no pleasure from the deaths of the fodder, but he _aches_ for Kvar’s.

The storm rages on as he brings down wave after wave, and the sun’s light wanes, but the Desians do not. Night falls, faster than he’d expected it to as he loses both time and himself in the fight, and concern for Anna and Lloyd is a vice around his heart.

He pulls back, and brings down Judgement. He _does not have time for this._

His wings leave trails of light fading behind him in the sky, he moves so fast, so desperately. Easy to track, but that’s fine. He’s more than confident in his ability to handle anything Kvar can throw at him.

He spots the cottage, lights from the lanterns still on and shining through the windows, and while he does not feel _relief,_ he dares to hope.

It’s empty, and anxiety kicks into dread.

It’s so wet that the rain has washed about pretty much any tracks that could have possibly lead Kratos to wherever it is his family has fled to - he checks the rafters before he takes flight once more himself, and is reassured to know that, at the very least, Anna is not totally unarmed.

What one sword in the hands of a chronically tired, half-starved woman will do against countless Desians with guns is a pretty obvious answer, but Kratos refuses to so much as entertain the thought. This is _Anna._ The core of her is defying _everything._

“Kratos.” 

A familiar voice, and yet still Kratos stills, grip on his sword tightening before he whirls, and then he has Yuan up against a wall, blade to his throat.

“Yuan,” he says, and nothing else. His mouth is dry, and he is left with nothing but a panicked confusion. Why is his brother here? “You’re - ”

“Here with Martel,” Yuan cuts in, “Sorry to say it, but you’ve been found, Kratos.” He does look genuinely remorseful, too. “Your honeymoon is over.”

His tone isn’t cruel, but his phrasing is. Kratos presses the sword in; closer, tighter. Blood beads on the edge, and Yuan doesn’t try to fight him off.

“Kratos,” he says, and there’s something urgent in how tight he grips Kratos’ arms. “Kratos, Martel is here.”

Numb fingers, and the sword slips from his grasp. Falls to the ground with a clang. “Here,” he says faintly. “Martel is _here?”_

“She is,” Yuan says. “And she - ”

He cuts off - is cut off, as a swelling of mana oh-so familiar floods the air. Martel is not near them, not truly, yet she is unmistakable. Her power, her anger.

The wrath the world calls divine.

“Well,” Yuan says, soft and quiet and unable to meet his eyes, “looks like Martel found Anna.”

Wild panic is all Kratos is in that moment. He is not a man. He is a beast. His sword is gone, and he has no presence of mind to pick it back up - but his hands will suffice. Grip tight, a claw-like vice closes around Yuan’s neck. Crushing, unforgiving.

 _“Explain,”_ he demands.

“What’s to explain?” Yuan’s eyes meet his, hard and unflinching. He’s already seen Kratos hit rock bottom many times before. He knows what he is like at his worst. He is not afraid.

He should be. Kratos’ ‘worst’ before now had come at a time before he had everything to lose.

_Anna. Lloyd._

Yuan should be very, very afraid.

“What do you _mean,”_ Kratos grits out, “‘Looks like Martel found Anna?’”

Because - that mana, that had undoubtedly been Martel. But if it - if it was Anna, then that mana, that spell - his sister, his wife - 

The thought is too horrible to entertain. He doesn’t - he can’t -

He can _feel_ himself breaking. This is not the rage that shredded him when Mithos died. This is something else. Something cold, and numb, and infinitely more terrifying. 

“Martel, she…” Yuan hesitates. Kratos tightens his grip, just a little bit. “She hasn’t known where to find you, but she’s known since the beginning _why_ you left. Who it is you left with.”

Clarity, like the lightning the lightning still dancing outside. “She blames Anna.”

“She blames Anna,” Yuan confirms. “She’s…” He trails off, but Kratos doesn’t need him to continue. He could taste it, after all, in that explosion of mana earlier.

_Anger. Hate. Brilliant, cold satisfaction._

The truth hits him like a knife to the gut, slid in between his ribs subtly, but impossible to ignore or deny once it’s driven home.

Anna is dead, and Martel killed her.

There’s - 

There’s nothing. Hands slips from Yuan’s neck, and he falls to his knees.

“Kratos,” Yuan hisses, “Kratos, we don’t have time for this, _where is Lloyd?”_

_Lloyd._

Awareness sparks, if not life. Anna is gone, but - his son, their Lloyd - “He would have been with Anna,” he says, and forces himself to his feet. “If - if he was with her, when Martel - ” He chokes. Can’t get the word out.

“No,” Yuan says, moving right past Kratos’ inability to cope with anything. “Martel wouldn’t harm a child; have you forgotten who she is entirely? She wouldn’t have cast that spell if Lloyd was in range of it. Which means he _wasn’t with Anna.”_

Kratos jerks. Yuan is right. He’s right, of course; Martel has always loved children. Loved her brother. Loved teaching. Talked excitedly about the children she’d have with Yuan one day, teased Kratos about finding a wife already and settling down, so their children would be of an age to play with each other.

And then Mithos had died, and they never had, and the ramifications of being frozen in time had been the final nail in the coffin for Martel’s dream of a big, happy family.

(The day Martel had realised she’d never be able to have children had been, Kratos thinks, the day she had well and truly broken.)

Those thoughts aren’t important, so Kratos shoves age old grief away - what’s important about those thoughts is the fundamental truth of them; the mere idea of Martel harming a child is so antithetical to who she is that he almost can’t believe he’d entertained the thought of her doing so -

\- except yes, he can, because there is grief and there is anger and if Martel would take Anna from him out of spite, then why _not_ his son?

Is he being unfair? Maybe. It’s hard to tell, when nothing matters.

Nothing, except Lloyd.

“If he wasn’t with Anna,” he says, still stiff and mechanical and cold, so cold, “then he is somewhere out there in the woods.”

“The woods,” Yuan sighs, “the ones crawling with Desians?”

“Those woods, yes,” Kratos says, and blinks. “Noishe will be with him.”

 _“Very_ reassuring,” Yuan tells him. “Come on, Kratos - we need to find him before anyone else does.”

Yuan’s right. He’s right.

Together, they unfurl their wings - 

\- and take off into the night, searching for the one, singular reason Kratos has to make it through the night alive.

-x-

The boy is warm in her arms. Warm, under damp, cold clothing.

Kratos’ eyes blink out at her from a face that could only have come from his mother, shiny with tears. 

The thought of Anna Irving is like bitter poison, so Martel focuses only on those eyes. Those warm, red eyes - so familiar, so sorely missed.

Her hands are shaking as she grips him tighter. Noishe slinks low to the ground at her feet, looking uncertain as she smiles down at the boy. Martel pays him no mind.

“Hello,” she says to him. “I’m Martel. What’s your name?”

There’s no recognition in him at all when he hears her name - some hope she hadn’t even realised she’d been feeling fizzles out. He doesn’t know her. Kratos hadn’t told him about her - her! His _sister!_

The resulting anger is easier to deal with than the hurt, but both feelings are unimportant compared to the sweet little angel tucked safely in her arms. 

“I’m Lloyd,” he says, and he offers up his name easily enough, but there’s a certain wariness in how he stares at her as he sniffles. “Who’re you?”

“Martel,” she repeats easily, and continues on, “I’m your father’s sister, Lloyd. Your aunt.”

There’s only confusion in his face, but it’s fine. That’s fine!

“Family,” she explains. “We’re family, okay, Lloyd?”

“Family…” He repeats, and leans into her a little. His little grip on her shoulders is tight - fierce, just like his father. “Help, then? You’ll help?”

“Help who, little one?” 

“Mama!” Lloyd exclaims, and Martel’s smile threatens to dip into something uglier. “The man was being mean to her - ”

 _“Shh,”_ Martel murmurs, and presses a kiss to Lloyd’s forehead. He’s out like a light, and Noishe growls at her. She hushes him, too, and takes a moment to think.

 _The man was being mean to her_ \- that has to be Kvar. Truthfully, that doesn’t really bother Martel. She almost _likes_ the idea of throwing Anna Irving back into a ranch; karma, she could call it.

But Kratos would never accept it, and Lloyd…

(She hadn’t known about him. Hadn’t known at all! Kratos hadn’t told her! How could he do that to her! Why?)

She hates Anna Irving, but she loves Lloyd. Has barely known him for a handful of minutes, and she loves him so much it hurts. A little piece of family, sparkling and shiny and _new,_ when she’d thought her boys were all she’d ever have. He’s the key to bringing Kratos back home too, she knows it.

Hates Anna Irving, but she’s Lloyd’s mother. And as much as she hates it, that _matters._

“Very well, little one,” she sighs, “I will help your mother.”

Wings of light unfurl, and she rises.

Cradling Lloyd in her arms, she descends into a clearing not too far away - into chaos.

Haloed in gold, deep indigo brushing the edges of her wings, she’s a divine vision. The Desians surrounding Anna Irving fall to their knees.

Kvar is pale before her, but not uncertain. “Lady Goddess,” he says, and bows.

She pays him no mind. Her gaze is fixed on the sweating, shaking, corrupted form of Anna Irving, twitching in spasms of pain; she’d tried to pull out her exsphere, but had collapsed from the agony it had caused her before she could get it out all the way.

Well. That’s a good thing, Martel supposes. Means deciding to come out here to help Anna Irving wasn’t a waste of time, even if ‘she turned into a monster so I had to kill her’ is a nice, neat reason to have _not_ saved her.

Whatever, it’s not what she came in on, so it’s not what happened. Dreams of a happier result are irrelevant. 

Martel lands, but keeps the wings out.

“Lady Goddess?” Kvar’s voice, questioning. “Did you need something?”

“I have a question for you, Grand Cardinal,” she says. “This boy in my arms - did you know about him?”

Kvar glances down to Lloyd - surprise flickers across his face, chased by something greedy and altogether uglier. “Irving’s spawn,” he says with a nod. “I thought he would make an interesting experiment, Your Divine Grace.”

She tilts her head. _“Just_ Irving’s spawn?”

“...Your Grace?”

“You know who Anna Irving left your ranch with, do you not, Kvar?” She speaks low, each word dripping sugar. “After all, you requested so many extra troops just to keep him distracted… So, I ask again. _Just_ Irving’s spawn, Grand Cardinal?”

Kvar swallows. For the first time, he looks unsure, and deeply, deeply afraid. “No, Your Divine Grace,” he says.

“I see,” Martel says, and smiles. Lloyd shifts in her arms with a tired sigh, and she pulls him closer. “Thank you for your service, Grand Cardinal.”

She’s no Kratos, no Yuan. She’s not even her dear baby brother. No, when it comes to the art of war, of battle, Martel knows she’s barely a novice. Her skills, honed, lie in healing, not hurting.

But just because she doesn’t have violence down to a graceful, elegant efficiency doesn’t mean she’s _incapable_ of it.

She’s just messy.

The mana that pools in the ozone heavy air around her is _almost_ a sister to what Kratos pulls on when he starts throwing Judgement around, but is all over wilder, with an unrefined weight to it that Kratos’ spells just don’t have.

Waves of light spiral around her, jagged like teeth - 

\- and rip through the men around her.

They fall. They die. Slow, and gasping and wet and bloody, sure, but they die.

Martel’s not really paying attention to them, because at her feet, a dazed Anna Irving is struggling to push herself up, mud streaking her face as she blinks up at Martel without truly seeing her… and, approaching her, swift as the wind, are two mana signatures she knows better than her own, being led to her by Noishe.

She makes sure she’s smiling when Yuan and Kratos come into view. Her husband is unreadable, but Kratos has only eyes for his son, in her arms - and then Anna Irving at her feet, and then the bisected corpses that surround.

“Martel,” he says, stiff, halting, _Kratos._ “Martel, you - ”

“Hello, little brother,” she says. “It’s been a while, hmm? I’ve missed you!” She lifts Lloyd up higher, so his head is resting up on her shoulder, and nuzzles into him. “A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other, huh?”

His eyes are wild, and he’s staring at her like she’s a threat. Silly boy. Like she’d ever hurt _him._

“Yuan, get Anna for me, would you?” She turns her attention to her husband instead, letting Kratos have a moment to build his foundations back up under him. “I want to take her to Cruxis with us.”

Yuan pauses, for just a minute, but steps forward and picks up Anna Irving without protest. “What are you going to do with her?”

She makes her eyes go wide, hurt - like his uncertainty is stupid, like the implication she’d do anything but help is crazy, _insulting._ “I’m going to heal her, of course,” she says. “She’s family, after all.” She looks back to Kratos, watching them with that tormented light in his eyes. “Welcome home, Kratos.”

Despairing, he closes his eyes. “I’m home, Martel,” he says.

Giddy, family close at hand, Martel lets her angry words and bitter thoughts fade for another time, another day.

Right now, all is well.

* * *

> **now**

Kratos appears - could be days, hours, minutes later. Anna doesn’t know. Everything is hazy. Time’s lost all meaning.

Especially on her.

She chokes on a bitter laugh, edging hysteria, as her husband sits on her bed, by her side.

She’s never felt more distant from him. From anything, everything.

“Anna,” he says. “Anna, I am so, _so_ sorry.”

Curled up in Kratos’ arms, Anna cries herself to sleep.

She doesn’t dream.


End file.
